


Give In

by Anonymous



Category: Diabolik Lovers
Genre: Eating Disorder, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:27:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	

When Azusa finds out, you’re in the infatuation stage of sickness. The part where everything is so bright and alluring, where there’s so much promise. The part where you think you can do anything, and you think you can become invincible with more self-control.

Oh, you’re very sneaky – on some level, you know you have to be sneaky, because there’s something not quite right about what you’re doing – but you get caught anyway, because it’s impossible to evade Azusa’s constant attention. Azusa’s only curious about what you're doing, and it’s the lack of criticism that makes you break.

You give him the same answers you give yourself: that if you were just a little closer to perfect, you would be _happy_. You would be _acceptable_. You would be _worth something_. You’ve got lists of goals and of all the things that will be possible when you are tiny and perfect, and some of those include him.  How you’ll look in his sweater, perhaps, or what people will think when they look at the two of you. What he’ll think of you is one of the top entries on the list, but you keep that goal a secret. 

Azusa wants you to be happy, so he is… _encouraging,_ at first. Azusa becomes your shield when Yuma looks at you askance for not finishing your plate, or when Kou and Ruki get suspicious about your strange moods at meal times. Azusa is happy with you when the scale falls lower. When you’re proud of how many Good Days in a row you’ve had, Azusa is pleased, too.

But.

The Good Days become Decent Days that are not as common as Bad Days. Azusa is there to pet your hair and whisper soothing things about better tomorrows, how strong you are, when you’re trying to beat yourself down. You have to chant in your head: _“you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong, and you don’t know anything,_ ” because you refuse to believe the kind things he says about you. 

(Later, Azusa will not be allowed to touch your hair, because it will fall out so easily. He will be terribly upset by this.)

Since you're, well, trapped in the mansion, you can’t get online. It’s hard to find more information about diets and food; you have to borrow a lot of books from the school library and keep notebooks full of conflicting information, tips, and rules. With Azusa’s support, it’s easy enough to borrow the books—but Azusa grows so very clingy and only allows you so much free time. At first, he’s fine holding you while you read, but he watches your expressions. He says you look unhappy and upset more often than not, and then he cuts you off from books. No amount of begging or anger will get them back, because he repeats, over and over: “I’m sorry… I can’t stand to see you suffer.” He tells you to hit him if you’re angry, and that really doesn’t help. 

Eventually, you don’t care – all food starts to look like poison, anyway; nothing is Safe. You look through your notebooks again and again and your rules get stricter and there are things you can’t believe you ever thought were okay… until the notebooks go missing, of course. It hurts, but you’re afraid to challenge Azusa – you don’t know what might come out if you fight.

But you can’t avoid it forever.

 

 

Azusa closes in on you one day, just as you step on the scale—and you shriek, because you’re naked, but it’s no use. He grabs your thin wrists and pushes your back against the bathroom wall. The tile is icy and makes your skin prickle, but what really makes you shiver is the tone of Azusa’s voice: “I… don’t think this is a good idea.” You try to ask what he means, but his voice gets softer: “Your blood tastes strange… you need to stop.”

And then you _know_.

And it makes you _angry_ , because you’re not ready to give up on your only hope of ever becoming an acceptable person.

Azusa’s sleepy eyes widen and he shakes his head when you express this. “That’s wrong… You’re fine… You don’t need to do this… okay?”

You don’t answer him.

He doesn’t understand. If you were Good, Better, Perfect -- you could save him from himself. It’s understandable that he needs to hurt himself to feel alive, to be useful, because – well, you’ve never talked to him about how important he is to you, but you know better than anyone that _no one_ could happy with you. Not like this—not as you are, flawed and imperfect. 

Azusa murmurs your name. His hands release your wrists, and the cool tips of his fingers tickle your skin as they slide up to thread with your own fingers. He presses his palms against yours very softly, but he’s still holding you in place- open and exposed. “Even when you’re with me… you’re never thinking of me… I’m so lonely.” He presses into your bare chest, his cheek brushing yours, and you’re not sure if you’re grateful for the cover or scared because he’s _too close_.

It’s all too much, too raw – your eyes water as you say you _were_ thinking of him.

Azusa’s grip tightens. “… …I don’t understand.”  He steps further into your limited space - practically flattening you against the wall. He can feel the shape of your body, now, and you can't help comparing his bony hips to your own with a hot shock of shame. Azusa licks your red cheek and rests his chin on your shoulder. His cold breath tickles your neck. “How were you thinking about me? … Even though I hate it… when your heart is pained… How…?”

You know Azusa thinks you should simply rely on him, surrender to his pain and pleasure. He doesn’t understand, he’ll never understand why you need to

hurt yourself

to be worth something.

That’s just it, isn’t it? You’re—hurting yourself, aren’t you? It’s what you have to do, and you think it’s necessary and the cost is more than worth it, but, even so—your actions are _hurting you_. It is pain, and it’s just like what Azusa does, so he _should_ understand you, shouldn’t he?

You argue this in a steadily growing fury. Tears slip down your cheeks, but your warm face only makes your anger burn hotter. You’re not exactly thrilled when Azusa hurts himself; you hate how bad he needs it, how obsessed he is, how he can’t value anything else but pain. He can’t _see you_. He doesn’t _listen_.

Admitting all this comes with more agonizing shame, because you’re still not that perfect person – not worthy of being heard yet. The feeling chokes off any further words, and you can only pant from the emotional strain of tearing everything open so quickly.

His blank stare – confused, horrified, unsure? – makes you feel ugly and needy and disgusting, so you turn your head and press your cheek to the cold tiles. The ones under your back are uncomfortably warm and moist, and you shift in the little space you have left.

The movement startles Azusa -- his whole body jerks with shock, and his face twists with something heartbreakingly painful. You’re actually grateful when he pulls you away from the wall and crushes you to his chest. You have to duck your head to breathe, and he fights your movement: “No…! I won’t let you go!”

“I’m not!”

He makes you promise not to run twice before his grip relents a little. You feel it when he kicks something – the scale clatters away. Azusa drags you both down to the marble floor, and you keep your cheek to his chest. You don’t look up, but you wonder what kind of expression goes with his voice, which is hoarse and sticky with pain: “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… …” His breath hitches quietly.

A fresh wave of tears bubbles up in you, too, and you grip the front of his shirt and cry.

With enough tears, your heart feels leveled. All you can hear is the sound of breathing after you stop, and you’re afraid to break it, but with your emotions numb, your physical state begins to aggravate you. Your stomach is knotted and hollow, but that’s not new; more pressing is the ache in your knees, the stickiness of your face, the wet fabric rough on your cheek, the throb of opened wounds, and the fact that you’re naked and sitting on a bathroom floor with a silent, trembling vampire clinging to you.

“Azusa-kun,” you whisper and shake him a little.

He makes a whiny noise but refuses to move until you ask if you can go to bed together.

Azusa hovers near you as you stand, unable to stop touching you entirely. Your vision gets blotches of black as the blood rushes to your head – but you don’t faint, thank goodness. It’d be far too much if you fainted now, don’t you think? You need to lie down, possibly forever. Whatever will happen with Azusa and everything that’s wrong with both of you – you can’t deal with it anymore.

 

 

 

In Azusa’s room, warm light is seeping in through the window. Bathed in orange, even Azusa’s pale face looks softer.

He lends you a shirt. It’s big on you, and, in spite of everything… that makes you a bit happy.

In bed, Azusa pulls the covers over the two of you to block out the world. In his timid but forceful way, he pressures you to lie down facing him; you’re too tired to protest, but you have to close your eyes against the concern in his haunted eyes. His hand touches your cheek. By now, you can picture it in your mind – slender fingers and skin slightly rough with half-healed scars and scratches. He’s not kind in the normal way, but it still makes you ache.

You know that if you move away, he’ll fuss about you leaving– no, _abandoning_ him. You’re vaguely tempted to try it, to reject his kindness and push him away - but you’re simply too tired.

The next time you open your eyes, you find Azusa sitting up in bed. He’s still staring at you.

You wonder when he got up before you notice there’s a small glass of juice in his hands. Is it vegetable juice or fruit juice? He’s not really going to make you drink that, surely…? Your mind whirls with the nutrition tips and facts and the rules that still govern you. Juice is the worst.

“Hey… Look at me…” He sighs and puts the glass on the floor beside his bed. “Look _only_ at me.” His hands are inhumanly strong, but he’s careful as he pulls your arm to sit up.

“I thought about what you said...” He plays with the tips of your hair. It’s an old habit, and you don’t stop him. “…the meaning of your existence. Proving that you’re… worthy of…” He pauses for a long moment as his eyes flicker over you – choosing his words very, very slowly.

You dodge any attempt at eye contact. You could say something to cut him off, but you don’t. 

He gently strokes the back of your head with one hand and leans into whisper in your ear. “We’re the same, aren’t we…? So, I’ve decided… I don’t need anything but you.” He smiles in that charmingly innocent way he sometimes does. “And you don’t need anything but me… You don’t need to be perfect, because… you have me… _I’m_ the meaning of your existence.” He nips your earlobe and gently sucks the scratch made by his fangs before he sees: “… Mm… are you crying?”

You shake your head and muffle a sob with one hand.

Azusa smiles wider and slips his arm around your back, pressing your face to the bandages on his neck. “It’ll be alright… you can cry, because I’ll hold you... the imperfect you is what I want, so... Please give everything to me.”

What else can you do, but give in?


End file.
